Stretch Out Your Hand (formerly A Sensitive Sensibility)
by EJGryphon
Summary: "Marianne Dashwood ... was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, to voluntarily giver her hand to another! ... Marianne never could love by halves; and her whole heart became ... much devoted to her husband." Austen tells us this happens, but how? Read on to discover! ADVICE PLEASE!
1. Chapter 1

In the afternoon following their wedding, Marianne and Brandon sat in the parlor at Delaford. "What a perfect day," Marianne said with a contented sigh. "Perfect in every particular."

Brandon could not disagree. "Indeed," he replied. He looked at his young bride, still in her wedding clothes, with pride and a little unease. She was the new mistress of this house, as she had long been mistress of his heart, but he had to confess that he knew very little what to do with the lady living in his home.

"I hardly know what to do with myself," she said, seemingly reading his mind. "I've hardly had a night in a house without Elinor." Brandon smiled; he too loved her sister, the wife of the curate of the parish on his estate. Her wedding had done just a few weeks before, and her husband, Edward, had performed their own marriage earlier that day.

"Why, when we were in London this winter, Elinor and I were obliged to share a room – even a bed!" She smiled fondly for a moment, then seemed to realize what she had just said to her new husband, colored, and looked away, to the other end of the room. Brandon followed her eyes, and saw that they had alighted on his pianoforte. Suddenly remembering, he stood and walked over to it; he open the chest beneath the seat and drew out a handsomely wrapped package. He returned to Marianne, and handed it to her.

"A wedding gift," he said, with a smile. She returned his smile, and eagerly took hold of the package, opened it, and found that it contained a book of duets.

"Oh, Colonel –" she paused. "That is, thank you!"

"Shall we try one out?" Brandon asked smiling still.

"Oh yes! Let's." They walked together back to the pianoforte, and together sat down. He let her play, and they sang together. Despite their mutual love of the instrument, they had never played together before. He was a shamed to admit that he much preferred to listen to his beloved Marianne, the far superior songbird, and to silence his own pleasure in the music in favor of pleasure in her.

Afterwards, they sat together for a moment. In fact, he had to admit that they sounded quite good together. He reproached himself for not trying this sooner. He was so pleased to be seated beside her, joined together in a shared venture, at last. The final chord of the piece hung in the air like the perfume of spices. But suddenly a thought went through his mind, a question he had longed to ask, but have been too afraid. "Marianne, I hope - that is, by now, the ceremony over and done with, I hope you are now secure enough in my affection and esteem to allow me to liberty of asking you a question. And, I hope, to give me a truthful answer, knowing as you must that it will change nothing about my esteem."

"Pray continue," Marianne replied, earnestly. "Whatever you ask, I will answer."

Brandon paused nevertheless. He studied the keys of the pianoforte, pondering the prudence of the question pressing on him. "What, exactly, was the _nature_ of your relationship with … Mr. …"

She pressed her lips together, blushing, looking away, then studying his face, trying to discern his mind. At last, deciding on the truth, she replied, "I have retained my virtue."

Brandon could not deny that he was relieved, not for reasons of his own pride but for her heart and the denial of such final satisfaction to his bitterest rival and most hated enemy. At that moment, with a sigh, he released his last hold on the man who had stolen so much from him and from those he loved, and promised himself to never again think the name of that blackguard.

"And you?" she asked, piercing his silence. "What is the status of your virtue?"

It was a silly question for anyone acquainted with the ways of the world, and Brandon had the suspicion that she was well aware of the answer she would receive. He was, nevertheless, nothing if not steadfast in his commitment to Marianne and to, now that he at last had the dearest desire of his heart, share with her all the particulars, torturous and tortuous as they were, thereof. "In my time abroad, I confess, I transgressed against what the better of me knew to be right. I have since seen the destruction, the utter ruination, of such actions upon all persons concerned, and I have repented of my misdeeds and not repeated them since my return home."

Marianne nodded, considering his words. She knew well what was the ruination to which he referred. Moved by compassion, she took his hand and pressed it. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to speak, but stayed silent in the mutual assurance of their friendship.

As he had so often longed to do, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Amidst the planning of her sister's wedding and Marianne's own recovery from sickness, he had arranged his own proposal of marriage through her mother, Mrs. Dashwood, to whom he had once confessed the depth of his feeling for Marianne during the depths of their mutual despair over the young lady's recovery. Marianne had accepted, to his great and lasting astonishment, and preparations for her arrival at Delaford had begun almost immediately. With so much activity, he realized even then, there was little time for his intended to adjust to the changed nature of their relationship. They had had little time alone together, and littler still occasion to deepen their affection beyond admiration. Not that Brandon needed much to become sincerely attached to her, as he had been since the first time he had seen her pretty face, heard her speak, or perceived the sweetness of her heart. He worried, rather, about the depth of her feeling for him, for though he would have, and had, loved her no matter her regard for him, he hoped that the events of that happy day had not doomed her to a life with a man she neither knew nor truly loved.

How she had changed since her prior disappointment. Her silence now, as he was lost in thought, was testament to her new regard for the need of prudence. Brandon could not help but feel conflicted over the change, for the lows of her emotion had been in direct proportion to the highs, and he wondered if the evenness she displayed now was evidence of a lack in either extreme.

Seated thus, hands clasped, they remained for several minutes, each wondering what the other was thinking. It was she who broke the silence.

"Well, dearest," she said, breezily. His heart jolted inside his chest and for several moments he felt unable to breathe. "Shall we try the next in the series?"


	2. Chapter 2

The sun set, supper was cleared, and Brandon dismissed the servants for the night. The last maid showed Marianne to her dressing room, which connected to a bedchamber by a carved wooden door. She washed her face and hands and carefully took down her hair; Margaret had helped her pin it all up that morning, and a few wilted flowers remained tucked into the folds and curls. She placed her jewelry - her mother's earrings, a locket that had been a gift from her father - in a drawer in the wardrobe, but left the strange gold ring on her left hand. Finally, she slipped on a new nightdress, a gift from her elder sister, perfectly reflective of Elinor in its simplicity and the tightness of its stitches. Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes: though each was so happily situated that no sibling could have wished for more, it was strange still to be divided by even the distance of less than a mile.

Marianne at last drew open the door to the bedchamber, and realized that her hands were trembling. Her soft leather slippers made no sound on the wood floor, and the fire in the hearth danced its light across the room and cast shadows on the wall. What she had told her husband was the truth: she was still a maid, and despite her mother's awkward attempts to prepare her for this night, Marianne was as nervous as she had ever been in her life.

With all her heart, she hoped that her husband had been equally truthful, that he had abstained from the pleasures of women for long enough that he would be unable to compare her to any other. She sat on the edge of the bed - which was in fact _their_ bed - and stared at her hands in her lap. _Oh Lord, what will he think of me?_ she wondered. _Will he come to regret having married such a foolish girl?_ In Brandon's goodness she had no doubt, nor in the constancy of his regard for her; but she was young and pretty, and impetuousness can be forgiven in one with traits such as these; in a wife one can hardly find them agreeable. Or so she had been told by many in the months that had passed since her disappointment and since her life had changed so utterly. It was impossible to pretend that she did not owe a great deal to the Colonel, whose affection for her had lifted her out of the ill reputation that could easily have followed her own humiliating conduct and whose personal fortune had lifted her family out of the lower recesses of good society, allowing her sister to marry, her brother-in-law to find a profession, and her mother to rest easy for the first time since her father's death; in short, he was a good man, and she felt deeply committed to ensuring that he was happy in his choice to marry her.

At the same time, Marianne knew her new husband very little. His goodness was undeniable, his love for her solid, and his taste in music irreproachable. What more could she want in a husband? What else remained to know of his heart? _Much._

The door to the chamber from his dressing room opened a crack, and a soft rap on the door sought permission to enter. "Do come in," she murmured. Being the middle daughter of a once-wealthy widow had not prepared Marianne to think of herself as mistress of a house, much less to grant permission for anything to the master of it.

Brandon entered, very slowly; he was wrapped in his dressing gown, a candlestick in his hand. In the soft light of hearth and candle, his features were softened too, and he looked younger than his years. It was true that he was quite a bit her senior, and that he was not handsome as many might reckon it. Yet his expression was all concern and kindness, and he pronounced her name softly and warmly, and she felt calmer immediately. She did her best to beam up at him as he came into the room and set the candlestick on the bedside table, to make him feel welcome in her presence.

"I hope you found everything you needed," he said.

"Yes, everything," she nodded earnestly. "You are kind to ask."

Brandon shook his head. "Your happiness is mine," he replied, quietly. He looked suddenly uncomfortable as he eyed the edge of the bed opposite her. "What is your usual routine for going to sleep?"

 _Going to sleep indeed._

"I will usually read as late as Mama allows me. She does not approve of the waste of the candle," she answered, "but with Elinor gone from the house she cares less for such things."

"Then shall I read to you?" he asked. Marianne did not speak but nodded, and watched him draw a small volume from the drawer of the nightstand. He sat and opened the book, turning to a bookmarked page. With him beside her. her nerves returned, all of a sudden, and she was aware of the trembling of her hands all afresh. "'Where, like a pillow on a bed / A pregnant bank swell'd up to rest / The violet's reclining head, / Sat we two, one another's best.'"

As he read, she studied his face; had he marked this page specifically for her? What did he intend her to hear as he read?

Marianne flushed as deep red as she ever had in her life. She could not watch her husband as he read. He glanced up and stopped reading. "Marianne, what is the matter?"

"You do not have to make love to woman who is already married you," she said.

"You are wrong," he said, with a wry smile. "For it is most important to woo a woman who has married where she does not love."

Marianne could have blushed more deeply crimson, she would have. "That is not true."

"It is, for if you felt for me more than friendship, you would have said so. I know you do not approve of hiding your emotions."

Marianne continue to look away, staring into her own lap, feeling very warm. For several moments they sat in silence, until she whispered, "Forgive me."

Silence continued, until Brandon said, just as softly, "There is nothing to forgive." And he finished the poem.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Marianne I woke to the sound of her husband's soft snoring breath. She moved onto her back to look at him. He was on his side, facing her, fast asleep. He looked peaceful, almost childlike, in his sleep. The morning sun was creeping into their bedroom, and she stared at the ceiling. It was a very fine ceiling, in a very fine at home. She still could not believe she was mistress of the house at Delaford, and that he was her master.

It had been and an uneventful evening, she was ashamed to admit, and so she felt quite rested. She thought with gratitude or sorrow, she could not tell which, about the conversation she had had with her husband. He was right, of course, that he did not have her heart. Did it still belong to one who had treated her so ill, and another lady worse still? No, that was not it; it was not that she loved another, for how could that other have her heart? (Though he would always have her regret.) It was only that her heart did not belong to him whom she had married, though she could not say why.

No, that was not right. Brandon was kind, generous, and everything good; he was duty and compassion, but no passion, no fire.

Yet this was not true either. She thought of what Elinor had told her, of the duel in the woods. She knew that it had not been only for the honor of Miss Williams, but of herself as well, and she was by turns grateful and distraught that _both_ men had emerged from the woods unwounded.

Brandon was all duty and devotion, tamped down by the peradventures of life; his devotion to one young ward meant he would suffer to support and even love the child of the one he hated most. Miss Williams and her infant, safe in their home in the country, were never far from his thoughts, she knew. She had not yet met the young lady, and in her heart she hoped she never would, but would do so out of the duty of her respect for her husband. For she knew that he loved the girl and her child, as much as he hated the one who had destroyed her.

Lost in thought, Marianne did not hear the change in her husband's breath as he woke. She was startled when she set up to get out of bed when he murmured, "what time is it?"

"The sun is up. We'll be late for church."

"Church?" he repeated, his eyes now open.

You do not attend church on Sundays?" Marianne asked, knowing well that he did.

"Not the morning after I've been married."

"Is it a common occurrence then?"

He laughed. "No, Marianne, but I would not be parted from you so soon."

How could she deny him? She lay back down and they talked together. "What made you choose Donne?" She asked, for want of a subject.

"You do not care for Donne? I could have chosen Marlowe."

"Marlowe? Do you not care for anything more contemporary?"

"Indeed I do, but I have always had a fondness for Marlowe. Since I was a boy."

"What an odd boy you must have been!" Marianne said.

"Perhaps I was."

"What kind of a boy were you then, that you would have a fondness for Marlowe?"

"I was the kind of boy who climbed trees, who caught toads, who came home muddy at night. The kind of boy whose family thought he was a bit strange, whose elder brother did not like him much. But I liked Marlowe because we shared a name. My friends at school even called me Kit."

"Kit!" Marianne exclaimed. "I cannot imagine you a Kit."

"I was young once, Marianne."

At this, Marianne was quiet. He was aware, she knew, of the difference in their ages, and she knew that it pained him. When another suitor had come along for her, he had not tried to compete, for the other was young and handsome. She turned her head to look at him, his hair rumpled on the pillow, the collar of his nightshirt open. She wondered how she had once seen him as old and ugly, for his face was as kind and gentle as I knew she had now. His friendship had taught her to see him anew.

"Col – Christopher," she said, after a moment. His Christian name still seemed foreign to her tongue, though he had implored her to use it since the moment of their engagement. "John and Fanny are here, and we cannot ignore them while they are in Devonshire."

"You do not care for your brother," he observed.

"There is very little to recommend him."

"And your sister, even less?"

How he did watch her. She ignored the question for propriety.

"We shall have to see them," she repeated. They are staying with Mama, so I know they won't stay long."

"Then we shall have to drive to Barton," Brandon said. "It need not take all day."

"No, but I do not wish to be deprived of my mother on account of John and Fanny."

"Indeed not," he replied, thoughtfully. "We can take the carriage to Barton, with Elinor and Edward too."

"Yes," Marianne said, feeling content.

"Shall I have breakfast brought in?" he asked. "Or shall we not trouble the servants?"

"Let them be a while longer," Marianne replied. She was in fact quite comfortable here just now.


	4. Chapter 4

And so the Brandons and the Ferrarses arrived at Barton Cottage to visit with Mr and Mrs John Dashwood. None was so happy to see them as was Margaret, who had spent the morning watching Fanny decorate a hat.

Mr Dashwood shook hands with Edward, who was now twice his brother-in-law, and with Colonel Brandon, who was a man of both good breeding and good fortune; Fanny greeted the Colonel and her brother cooly, for she was not supposed to have admitted him back into her family. It was not long before the Middletons, who had seen Brandon's carriage go past, arrived with their children, and Colonel Brandon and Sir John were engaged in conversation, and Edward and Margaret had gone to see a nest of squirrels, and Lady Middleton was engrossed in her children, and Marianne, Elinor, and their mother were left with Fanny, talking of the weather.

Fortunately, they had hardly finished the first pot of tea before little Harry had a cough, likely carried by one of the Middleton children, no doubt, and Fanny declared that they would all have to return to Norland first thing in the morning. The Brandons were home in Delaford for supper.


	5. Chapter 5

The silence at the supper table, which ordinarily would have been welcome after a day with the Middletons and Dashwoods, was, to Marianne, insufferable. Brandon was the sort of man who did not mind the silence, but they had been wed just one day and already there was nothing to talk about.

"Did you see the village, still all decorated from yesterday?" she tried.

"I did indeed," he replied, between pensive bites. "Very pretty."

Marianne looked down at her own plate, and an idea struck her. "What is the strangest meal you ever ate?"

This, evidently, was interesting enough for Brandon to put down his fork. "In India there are some who eat ants."

"Ants? Whatever for?" Marianne declared, even more pleased that he seemed interested than in having learned some new, romantic tidbit. "Did you try them?"

"They taste a bit like nuts," he replied, smirking mischievously. "But I would not eat them again. Sometimes they are still crawling."

Marianne was finished with her own supper with that, but she implored him to continue. "And what else?"

"Pig's feet, the organ meats … no one there eats beef, of course, for it is sacred to the Hindu god."

"How strange, that they eat pig's feet to spare the cows, and the Jews eat beef to spare the pigs."

"Quite right. But our ships went around Africa and into the Indian Ocean; I never had the pleasure of visiting the Levant." Brandon was now smiling broadly at her. "The women's dresses in India are so beautiful, made of colored silk and jewels. I wish I had a piece to give you, Marianne; a fine purple to complement your pretty hair."

She smiled and dropped her eyes. He had given her many gifts, of course, during the period of their engagement: music mostly, and books, but also a silhouette of himself at the urging of her mother, and a jeweled pendant when he had proposed. She too wished she could share in a piece of his travels, for he had seen so much of the world and she only Devonshire and Somerset.

"Perhaps someday we could travel," he continued, seeming to hear her thoughts. "Where would you most like to go?"

"I? I know so little about such things; I should not like to go very far and leave my mother … but I would like very much to see Paris and Rome."

"Then we shall go to the Continent as soon as conditions permit," he said, with comforting finality. "My sister, as you know, is in Avignon, and I would greatly love to visit her there; she will be so pleased to meet you. You'll want to go shopping in the finest stores, and find dresses for Margaret and Elinor."

Not for Elinor, though; she was a parson's wife now, and a gown from Paris would only take up space in her wardrobe, for she could never wear it. But Margaret was getting to the time of life when she'd be invited to many balls, and much more so now that her sister was the wife of a well-known gentleman. Yes, Margaret would benefit greatly from such generosity; perhaps they could take her with them, for it was Margaret's dearest wish to travel.

"Would you like that, Marianne?" he asked, and she realized it had been several moments since he had spoken. She had known that in marrying Colonel Brandon she was marrying a wealthy man, but she had not imagined such a life as the one he described.

"I would very much like to travel with you," she said, and she realized that she meant it. His color changed ever so slightly, and she was not sure what to make of that, but their conversation continued on so pleasantly that Marianne decided not to think about it.


	6. Chapter 6

Brandon entered the bedchamber as he had done the night before, slowly and cautiously. Marianne welcomed him with greater cheer than the night before, and he seated himself on the bed beside her, producing a small book from the pocket of his dressing gown.

"An offering," he said, showing her the cover: _Hebrew Melodies_.

"Byron!" she exclaimed. "I didn't know you knew him!"

"I have many secrets yet to reveal, my Marianne," he replied, and she looked away. He opened the volume and began to read: "She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies." She nestled into the blankets to listen as he continued: "And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes: / Thus mellow'd to that tender light / Which heaven to gaudy day denies."

Brandon knew, of course, that there was no copy of _Hebrew Melodies_ at Barton Cottage: at the exhorbitant cost of a guinea, Mrs Dashwood would never allow the expense; it was therefore his greatest joy to spoil his beloved now that he had the chance. Marianne listened rapturously as he finished the poem.

"It is a gift," he said, handing her the book. "Of course."

Marianne held it admiringly, turned it over, flipped its pages. It was a pretty little thing, new, and unread, save perhaps by Brandon, who had sought something appropriate to share with his wife. "Thank you."

He smiled back at her, glad only to see that she approved. It was, after all, something contemporary. He shifted slightly as the ever-present ache in his shoulder grew somewhat sharper for a moment, and rubbed it almost unconsciously.

"Is it the rheumatism?" She asked. That stung more than the shoulder itself. "Are you quite all right?"

"It is only an old injury," he replied, trying to make his voice sound light. "I should fetch some liniment."

He stood he stood and went to his shaving stand, and drew out a small glass bottle. He took off his dressing down and laid it over the valet, and then return to sit on the edge of the bed

"Perhaps I can help," Marianne offered as he started to unbutton color of his nightshirt. "I often help Mama with such a trouble."

Brandon hated himself in that moment, to be compared to her mother, though he knew she was more of his age then was his new wife. "I am quite able," he replied.

"I do not mind," she said, taking from him the bottle. He watched her face as he undid the neck of his night shirt, giving her ample time to retract her offer. She did not. At last he pulled aside the collar to reveal his shoulder.

Marianne placed some ointment in her hand and gently rubbed it into his skin. "Will you not tell me the story of these scars?" she asked, trying to hide her surprise at the sight of them. No doubt she had made her own assumptions.

The ache, of course, was not caused by some rheumatism, for it had been with him since he was a young man. "I was shot by the enemy in India." He watched the expression change on her face, and took that as inducement to continue speaking. "The shrapnel embedded itself in my shoulder, and became infected. The inflammation did not subside for some time, and I was very lucky to survive."

"How awful," she replied, with feeling.

"Many of my comrades were not so lucky." He stopped short, realizing as he spoke that his words might be heard as a plea for pity, which he had no intention for. She had, after all, a very soft heart, he knew well. Her hands moved gently, smoothing the warming liquid in; this weaker French stuff his sister sent him smelled lighter than the Indian balm he had first used, and helped less, but it seemed unnecessary to maintain connections in the Indies for the sake of liniment. He closed his eyes for just an instant and tried to memorize the feeling of her touch.

"I imagine that was very difficult," Marianne said, thoughtfully, as she replaced the linen of his shirt over his shoulder. It was an incomplete statement; the look on her face revealed that she was trying to think of a response beyond the merely appropriate. How she had changed and tempered; she had no wish to force his confidence.

Brandon decided to spare her the further search for words. "It was the most difficult time of my life," he said, "for I did not know if I would live or die." For a moment, he wondered if he should continue. Yet here they were, married, and it seemed unkind and unjust to fail to finish the story. "All my time in India I longed to return home to England. When I finally came home, I found I wished to be anywhere else."

Silence reigned in their bedchamber for some moments, for Marianne knew well why he would have suffered so upon his return. She rested her hand on his forearm, intending to comfort him. Brandon could not pretend he did not understand what her thoughts were.

After some time, she spoke. "When my father died, I thought my heart would never recover. After events in London, I thought my heart would never recover. When I was so ill, I thought I would never recover. God gives us new opportunities to know him," she said very softly.

"Indeed he does," Brandon replied. "Indeed he does."

They continue to sit together then, there in their bed, her hand reassuringly on his arm, and he unsure how best to respond. In his heart, he longed to take her hand, indeed to embrace her, but he dared not. What a strange marriage bed they had, in which he feared to touch his wife.

At last, he said, "And I have another gift for you."

"Another? You spoil me." But Brandon can see that she was very pleased indeed to be spoiled.

"But you must wait till morning to find out what it is."

"Until morning? I shall not get any sleep until I discover it!"

"Ah, but it is well worth waiting for."

"Do you enjoy teasing me?" she asked, smiling at him.

"I do," he said returning her smile. Brandon felt a bit guilty for changing the subject, when she seemed interested in yet afraid to request further information about his injury. Her flirtatious manner, though, was encouraging; she was not cross with him, was perhaps even happy to talk with him before bed. "Good night then."

"Good night," she replied, and he snuffed the candle. Marianne lay down on her back at first, then moved onto her side, facing away. Her breath soon slowed and she was asleep, and Brandon reached out his hand, rested it on her insensible shoulder, and fell asleep himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Morning came and Marianne awoke by herself. She dressed and went around the house looking for her husband; eventually she had to venture outside, wrapped in a shawl, to find him near the stables, playing tug of war with one of his dogs.

Immediately upon seeing her, Brandon doffed his hat and bowed. "Good morning, Madam!" he cried. "You know my pointer, Cassie."

"Good morning, ma'am," Marianne said to the dog. Was he drunk?

"You have arrived at the perfect hour to meet the latest addition," Brandon said, ushering her into the stable. Inside the inner-most stall lay a tiny newborn foal and its tired but contented mother.

"How beautiful!" Marianne exclaimed, his behavior suddenly explained. "Was her just born this morning?"

"Not two hours ago. I had my groom fetch me when she went into labor, and just before dawn came _he_." Brandon gestured at the little colt.

"What's his name?" she asked, admiring the pair. The mother was a soft bay; the infant, still damp, looked a roan.

"Whatever you would have it be," he replied. "He's yours."

"Mine?" she repeated. "Why, I haven't had a horse since we quitted Somerset. How beautiful! Thank you! He is the finest foal I have ever seen; there isn't another one like him in all Devonshire."

"You shall have to give Elinor license to exercise him from time to time," he said, coming to her side to gaze at the horses. "Patrick will break him, and then he'll be all yours to use as you please. She," he said, gesturing at the dam, "is Belle, and she is yours as well."

Marianne tore her eyes away from the beautiful little foal, born so late in the season as to be a little miracle, and his mother, the two finest animals she had ever seen, to look Brandon in the eye. "What a beautiful gift," she said, feelingly. "I shall love them like my own children."

Just as well, as there would be no children of any other sort as things were going, she said to herself, trying to hide her own self-reproach with a smile and hoping that he did not have the same thought. She looked back to the horses, but her mind wandered. How could she be so unfeeling, when he was so kind to her? After all, he was _trying_. Music, poetry, horses - and a newborn, no less! What more could she hope for? His attention was all on her; he was, she knew, the paragon of virtue and manliness and everything good. There was nothing at all to be desired in his conduct or tastes -

He was watching her.

She stammered, thinking on how to engage him. "I should like, after breakfast, to spend the morning at the pianoforte," she said. _Try, Marianne. Just try_. "Will you join me?"

"I would be delighted to join you in the parlour," he replied. "I have business to attend to, but I should like to listen to you while I work."

"You will not play with me?"

"It is you who are the finer musician, Marianne. I shall make for you a fine, quiet audience."

"And if I do not want only an audience?"

"Neither do I," he said, softly.


	8. Chapter 8

"How did you like your brother's sermon, Mrs. Brandon?" The Colonel asked her, as they stood at the back of the church after the service. Marianne smiled at her husband, and her sister, who had joined them.

"It was very brief," Marianne said smiling.

"Oh, Mr. Ferrars is no great orator, as you know," Elinor said quickly. Marianne continued:

"He made a very wise point about the role of virtue in decision-making, did you not think, Colonel Brandon?" Elinor recovered herself; she had not realized Marianne's remark was meant as a complement.

"Indeed," Brandon intoned.

"It was a very difficult passage work with you, no doubt, for the example of King David, that is. But I think he did well to identify positive and negative examples. There are many good men and women, as you know, who make difficult and bad decisions." She had said too much, and was grateful to be in such affectionate company.

"Your husband must spend many hours in preparation, does he not, Mrs. Farrell?" Brandon inquired.

"Indeed he does," Elinor replied.

"You must miss him when he spends so much time in his office," Marianne continued.

"Mr. Ferrars is good enough to conduct the writing sermons in the parsonage, so that I may be with him."

"He takes his responsibilities to the people of this parish very seriously." Marianne observed.

"He takes great delight in being able to serve the people of this community," Elinor agreed. "It is a great joy to see him so happily employed. And there is much work to be done."

"Is there someone at the village we should be especially concerned about, Mrs. Ferrars?" asked Brandon.

Elinor thought for a moment, wondering what she should say. "Mrs. Jacobs, a widow with very little money, has taken a turn for the worse. Mr. Ferrars has gone to spend several hours with her these past couple of days. I think the company cheers her, but I do not know what more can be done."

Marianne thought about that for a few moments. With only two servants in her house, Elinor had been doing quite a good deal of work at the parsonage. Though Brandon had made sure that the house was in the best of condition before Elinor and Edward moved in, there were still the daily tasks to accomplish, and Marianne knew that Elinor was quite busy with the role of being a wife.

"Then I shall come to see her," Marianne said, as the idea came to her. "Perhaps she would like some fresh flowers, and what else do you think she might need?"

She was aware that the Colonel had turned in his eyes to her, with an approving, affectionate, admiring gaze. She attempted to ignore the look of love which she knew she could not return.

"Pray, when might Mrs. Jacobs like such a visitor?"

"I shall ask Mr. Ferrars," Elinor said, proud of her sister. "He was with her yesterday afternoon, and may know her preferences."

At that moment, one of the few attendees of the morning service approach to wish Elinor a good morning. Brandon took a moment to comment on his wife's sudden charitable impulse.

"It is very good of you to seek to attend Mrs. Jacobs. I knew most everyone in the village had attended the wedding, and did not realize her absence. I'm sorry she is unwell, but she is a good woman, and will appreciate your kindness."

"I shall have Mrs. Thompson prepare a basket of baked goods from the Delaford kitchen, if its master approves."

A moment of silence passed between them. "Delaford's mistress may always do as she sees fit."

Edward at last broke free of his last conversation, and joined his family. "I did not expect to see the Brandons here this morning," he said. "Good day to you."

"My sister would like to visit Mrs. Jacobs, if you think she would appreciate the company," Elinor said to her husband.

"Oh," Edward replied. "She would indeed. Do you know her, Mrs. Brandon?"

Would she ever stop wondering to whom that name was being addressed?

"I do not, but my husband says she is known to him, and my sister tells me she is unwell," Marianne replied. "I only mean to bring some cheer and goodwill to a lady at the village."

Edward nodded. "Then allow me to introduce you."

"I should like that very much," Marianne said. "Would this afternoon be agreeable?"

"I think it would. If you would meet me at the parsonage, I should be glad to escort you to see her. "

Marianne felt very good about her spontaneous decision.

"it was quite a good congregation this morning," Brandon said to his brother-in-law. "Attendance seems to be up since we acquired a new curate."

Edward looked down at the floor. "Yes, it is a very fine parish. I am grateful to have been so graciously welcomed. It is small but full of the favor of God."

Brandon nodded, fully agreeing with Edward's assessment. After a few minutes more, the Brandons departed for Delaford.


	9. Chapter 9

"It is quite a kind thing for you to visit with Mrs Jacobs," Brandon said again, as they returned to the parsonage later that day. Now a married woman, Marianne did not need him to escort her wherever she went, but she could not bring herself to deny him when he offered to do so. "I am sorry to know she is unwell. In her day, she was a very vigorous part of this community."

As they arrived at the door, he handed her the basket of baked goods which he had carried for her; Elinor's maid answered and Brandon bowed to her. "Good afternoon, Mrs Brandon, Colonel," said she. "Mr Ferrars is waiting for you, ma'am." With another bow to the maid and to his wife, he left; she entered the house and found Edward in the foyer.

He took from her the basket and she took his arm, and they set out into the village and towards Mrs Jacobs' home. "I have not known her long, of course, but Mrs Jacobs was just earlier this year an important woman in town. Many depended on her kindness and generosity, but she is now struck with a palsy, and had another episode last week, and now cannot rise from the bed."

"Who is caring for her?"

"Her daughter-in-law, but she has three children of her own and her husband's farm house to look after and cannot be with the old lady for much of the day."

"What a shame," Marianne said. "None of those she helped before can take the time to look in on her?"

"She has no one but her family and two strangers," Edward replied, meaning himself and Marianne.

"What a tragedy; such a decline. But you say she was very kind and beloved."

"She was, and is still spoken well of by the parishioners; but the cares of the world make people … selfish, or self-absorbed, I should say." He searched for words. "Most people do not mean to be unkind, but only forget about others in their pursuit of their own interests." He was right, of course; her own history had taught her this. They arrived at the lady's door and Edward knocked softly. There was no maid to answer the door, no family member; the only response was a muffled call from within, and he opened the door to the single room of the cottage.

"Mrs Jacobs, it's Mr. Ferrars," he called, as they entered. "I've brought a friend, my sister-in-law Mrs Brandon." As her eyes adjusted to the dark of the room, Marianne realized that there was a small bed against one wall, where laid a figure wrapped in blankets. She could see now why her husband had declined to come for the visit, for to have a gentleman besides the parish priest come for a visit would surely only embarrass the old lady. There was little finery to be seen; it seemed that though she had been once they type to give away what she had, many years of generosity and widowhood had stripped the cottage of any comfort it may once have had. "Mrs Brandon, Mrs Jacobs," Edward repeated, as he drew closer to her bed.

She made a noise that could have been a greeting; Marianne could see that the palsy had taken from her the power of articulation, and she felt very sad for her indeed. "Good afternoon, ma'am," Marianne said. "Mr Ferrars told me you had been unwell and I wished to bring you some cheer."

Edward knelt to refresh the fire and Marianne looked for a vessel to contain the flowers she had brought. She found a clay pitcher filled with water and an earthen jar; in fact, she decided, it set off the early autumn mums quite nicely, and she arranged the flowers to her satisfaction and placed them by the bed.

"Perhaps, Mrs Brandon, you would be so kind as to read aloud," Edward said. There was indeed nothing to talk about with a woman who could not reply, but she did seem to be glad for the company, and Marianne knew Edward would be grateful for the relief of responsibility on himself to make conversation or to read, which he had no feeling for.

"Of course!" she said. It was the very thing. She looked around for a bookshelf, but found none.

"There is the Bible there," Edward said, helpfully, as he pulled a chair close to the bed for her. He seated himself at some greater distance and busied himself with a thread on his jacket while Marianne opened the book to that morning's readings.

"Mr Ferrars preached a very fine sermon this morning, Mrs Jacobs," she said, by way of preamble. "He is a very fine preacher indeed; Delaford Village is quite lucky to have a curate with such thoughtful insights to share." It was true, that Edward was a thoughtful man, and his sermon had been quite insightful. In truth, Marianne was glad to be able to praise Edward with sincerity for his performance in the capacity of curate, and glad that she had wrongly interpreted his diffidence when first they'd met. She read from the book for most of the next hour, until the lady seemed to close her eyes, and she and Edward took their leave of her.

"You have found a good use for your talents, Marianne," he said, as he walked her home to Delaford. "I have not seen her so calm. My own reading, when I attempt it, is, as you know …"

"Dear Edward, you do not have to explain yourself to me," she replied. "For I know your heart. I am so glad to have been of help to someone; I have been positively idle all this week."

"Mrs Jacobs would, I am sure, welcome your calling again. She was always a very affable woman, quite pleased to have visitors as I understand; perhaps the Colonel might have more information on her interests, for he knew her before she took ill."

"I shall ask him," she replied simply.

Edward thought for a few moments. "And how do you find … being the lady at … all things at Delaford?"

"It is a very beautiful home," she said, trying to ignore what she knew he was attempting to ask. "And my husband has plans for its continued improvement. A new foal was born yesterday, and he is to be mine to ride."

Edward responded only with a soft "hmm" and they continued in silence a few paces more. "A new foal," he repeated. "It is a gift from … from Brandon?"

"It is well that you have chosen the church for your profession, Edward," she said. "For you were not very good at being a spy. You may tell my mother and Elinor that I am quite well and do not need their worry."

Edward nodded solemnly. They were now almost to the door of the mansion-house, and one of the maids opened it for her. She smiled, finally, at her brother, and said "Good evening, Edward."

"Good evening, Marianne," he replied.


	10. Chapter 10

Marianne found her husband and the upstairs sunroom, taking advantage of the late afternoon light. He was surrounded by letters, and was just putting his signature on something. "And what is all this you're working on so intently?" she asked him.

"Business," he replied. "New investments. How is Mrs. Jacobs?"

Marianne sighed and sat in the seat beside him. "She was, I think, a brighter spirit when you knew her. But now I do not think she still rise from her bed again."

Brandon look down. "She will be dearly missed in Delaford Parish, for she was generous with her time and energies." Marianne could see the emotion in his face. It was evident that he had known her for many years, and that her sudden palsy and imminent passing caused him great pain.

She slipped her hand over his and he closed his fingers around hers. "I am sorry. She seemed cheered by my reading to her."

"Will you go see her again?"

"I believe I shall." They then sat together silently for some moments. Marianne looked at the pile of papers spread out on the table in front of them."Well, this is not for business." She extracted her hand from his and drew out an envelope, with the address written in a lady's hand.

"No, it is from Miss Williams. She writes to wish us joy on our marriage." Marianne gazed at the lettering. She wondered what sort of a woman Miss Williams could be; she had not anticipated finding this memento on her husband's desk.

"Open it, if you like." There were no secrets from Brandon, nothing hid. Marianne knew, could see plainly his attempts to open himself as widely as possible to her examination. She opened the letter and read in silence what was written there.

"My dear friend Christopher, it is with great joy that I write to wish you happiness in your marriage to the former Miss Dashwood. I was so pleased to hear of it in your most recent letter; I know her only from your description, but I am sure she is all that you say. I have pictured the little church in Delaford decorated for the wedding, and imagine the joy that must be on your face. I thank God for it again and again, and thank you to convey my happiest wishes to the new Mrs. Brandon.

"Little Chrissy gets bigger and bigger each day. It is a wonder he fits in his crib! You would not believe it if you saw him now. For he was so small, and now I can hardly keep him in one spot. We shall both hope to see you soon.

"Your loving daughter, etc."

She reread the letter through twice. Was this the woman who – she could not think it. She gazed at the name of her boy; she could hardly believe what was written there. "Chrissy," she repeated questioningly. Brandon looked away, embarrassed by his indulgence of his ward. "I am the only father she has known, and it was a comfort to her." She listened and tried to ignore the implications.

"Dearest, we should invite her to stay come summer, as she did when she was young."

Brandon looked at her, incredulous. His surprise had replaced his embarrassment to the degree that he could not even enjoy being addressed in such a way. "Invite Miss Williams? And her little boy?"

"Why yes. He will be a little more than a year, and walking. He will need a man in his life, and she cannot count on his father for that."

"Indeed not."

"You should write to her," Marianne said again. Unwilling to contradict her wishes, Brandon picked up his pen and found a fresh sheet of paper. He began to write his salutation, then sat down the pen again he looked at her, expectantly. What did he wish her to say? "Miss Williams seems like a well prepared young lady," she said, trying to fill in the space between them. "Her hand is quite fine, and her words well enough spoken."

"I spared no expense and her education."

The burning in her heart would not be quelled. "I must ask."

He knew she would. He knew that eventually she would ask. Slowly, his gaze alternating between the paper and her face, he said, "Eliza Williams, despite the gossip of Mrs. Jennings, despite the familiarity of her words to me, is not my daughter in any way but in my heart."

Marianne look back down at the letter. What was in _her_ heart? How could her emotions burn so against a woman she had never met, and whom she should only pity? Miss Williams' fate was one she could have shared quite easily, and at the hands of the same man; Miss Williams' pain should be her own, Marianne knew; and yet all she felt in that moment was a strange pang of jealousy. Her husband's words call one concern, but she had not truly believed that Miss Williams could be his natural daughter, no matter the quiet gossip around Devonshire. He had made quite a confession to her on their wedding night, and she had believed him. Brandon had not been the cause of his first love's downfall, although he could not save her from it, nor her daughter. Yet Miss Williams held his heart, and seemed to know him quite intimately. She felt no compunction about expressing her great joy in knowing of his, and seemed only to regret not having been able to share it. It was possible that Miss Williams was in fact a very kindhearted young woman, now in an intolerable situation, brought on by her own decisions, but not without great abiding affection for Brandon, the man she thought of as her surrogate father.

Why it should stick in Marianne's heart so she could not say.

Marianne said again, "Convey to her my gratitude."

Brandon again began to write, but stopped before half the letter was written. "I must go into Bath tomorrow," he said. "There is an important business matter that cannot be attended to there. I will need a witness, and the services of a lawyer."

"Into town? Can I not go with you?" She was surprised by the question. It was clear that Brandon was too.

"I shall not be gone long, for I shall ride and stay in a rented room. Only for a night." He peered at her as he began to write again. "If you would like to take the carriage, then, you could perhaps stay with your mother."

"Mama?" Marianne said softly, thinking with dread about the inevitable descent of the MIddletons upon Barton Cottage as soon as they saw Brandon's carriage. "No, I think I shall stay here with Miracle and Mrs. Jacobs."

"So you have named the little one," he said, with a gentle, kind smile. "It suits him."

He turned back to the letter to Miss Williams and Marianne watched him as he wrote. What could be learned of a person from his writing? Brandon's was neat, tight, and utterly Spencerian; smooth and perfect and practiced. Miss Williams', in contrast, was large, with loops and flourishes - in fact, it reminded her of her own: pretty, unrestrained, and musical in its way. She let out of puff of breath and tried to turn her mind to something else.

He finished the letter with his clean, elegant signature, and turned to look at her. "You have no interest in spending another afternoon with Sir John and Lady Middleton."

Brandon's many months and years of studied observation of her - and her utter inability to completely conceal her emotions - meant that he knew her quite well; she, having spent nearly as much time intentionally cultivating a lack of familiarity of him, was thus at a disadvantage. He could, then, pierce whatever thin veil she attempted to place over her mind, before she had opportunity to perceive his thoughts, and the fact of their marriage had removed his inducement to conceal what he knew.

"Not even your desire to see your mother can overcome the displeasure of sharing her with them."

"I do not know what you see in Sir John as a friend," she blurted out. "His interest is in amusement only, and never in art; he cares more for gossip than for true connection, and his countenance is in all things most unmanly and uncouth."

For an instant Brandon felt pride in his young wife's private outburst and flood of emotions. She continued:

"The two of you are as different as night and day."

It occurred to him that he should feel flattered by that, but he felt compelled to respond. "It is true that Sir John and I seem an unlikely pair. We were a part of the same regiment in the East Indies, at a time when I was … more reckless and ... liberal in my behaviors and words. In my darkest periods, he was as true a friend to me as any man could wish. Dearer and kinder to me than any brother."

Marianne was shamed. "I am sorry to give you offense. His family has been very good to mine."

"You need never apologize to me, Marianne. Fortunately John is insensible to the censure of others and thinks of only the best possible outcomes; he finds it impossible to imagine that anyone might prefer silence and solitude to constant companionship, and himself prefers a constant stream of activity and noise to being alone with his thoughts, giving him little opportunity to guess what they might be."

Was he trying to be … funny?

"His generosity is richly admirable and I will always feel indebted to him," he concluded.

"It seems that life is always to be a web of obligations and entanglements."

"Yes, I have come to the very same conclusion." He handed her the letter for her to approve. It read:

"Dear Eliza, your happy wishes have been most joyously received at Delaford. Mrs Brandon has been so moved as to request your company this summer after the rains have passed, and desires to make your acquaintance. We shall eagerly await further news on your son's development and wish you both continued good health. Yours fondly …"

"You are good to her," Marianne said, passing it back to him. "Do you think she will come?"

He folded the paper thoughtfully and sealed it. "I do not know."

Marianne remembered her conversation earlier that day. "Edward desires me to ask you what you know of Mrs Jacobs' interests, since you know her; he would like to give her a measure of enjoyment as she rests."

"Indeed, I do not know her as well as I should like. She had but one child, a son, who owns some land outside the village and has three very small children of his own. She has been a widow as long as I have known her and gave freely of her time to the church; the curate who held the office before your brother was a widower himself and had no one to tend to the linens and vestments, and she was a great believer in duty."

"It seems she was a good woman."

"Marianne," he said, "you have not asked me what I need do in Bath tomorrow."

"Have I not?"

"I am having my will remade." He produced a copy of it from the stack of letters.

"Your will? You are a young man to have need of a will."

He laughed wryly. "It was not long ago that you thought me at death's door." She looked away. "You will notice," he continued, gesturing at a few lines, "that virtually the entire estate of Delaford is to be yours, with a provision for Miss Williams until ever she should marry, and for Christopher Williams until his majority. You shall be mistress of Delaford as long as you wish to be, and shall dispose of it as and when you desire, and not before."

This took Marianne a moment to absorb. She read the lines he pointed to and tried to take them in.


	11. Chapter 11

Morning came again and Marianne woke to find Brandon already awake beside her, staring up at the ceiling. "Good morning," he said, glancing at her. "Sleep well?"

"I did," she replied. The morning light was just creeping into their bedchamber. He did not move to get up or even to speak again; they laid in silence for several minutes before she asked, "Will you take Charger?"

"He is the fastest horse I have," Brandon said, thoughtfully, "and I do not want to be gone longer than I must."

"You should get going then," Marianne replied, feeling oddly torn, "if you want to arrive by midday."

"I should," he agreed, and laid still for another quarter of an hour.

After saying goodbye to the Colonel, which left her feeling strange and uncomfortable, she wandered into the stables. "Morning, Mrs Brandon," Patrick called, before she even saw him. He came from around the corner, a brush in one hand. "Come to see the little one?"

"Good morning, Patrick; yes, if that's all right."

"Oh, he's in good spirits this morning. Got some rest and milk in him - he's quite changed since you saw him last." The groom ushered Marianne around to the stall containing Belle and her infant, and he knelt at the door to call the colt over. Belle moved protectively over to the door first and only gave Patrick access to the baby once she had received a rub on the nose and a piece of carrot retrieved from his pocket. Marianne knelt too in the fresh straw to greet the foal, who, gangly and tripping, drew close to investigate her. Patrick distracted the mare so Marianne could pet Miracle's soft baby fur and kiss the velvety cushion of his nose. The awkward, stumbling little foal lost his balance and crashed into her lap and Marianne embraced him in return; she could not remember feeling so contented.

"I shan't tell the Colonel you've fallen in love with another man," Patrick said, laughing. She tried to smile and laugh with him - she knew he meant only to be jovial - but the reverie was broken. She returned to the mansion-house for dinner.


	12. Chapter 12

Elinor was working in the parlour, hemming some of the linens from the church. Her tiny, perfect stitches were ideal for the work at hand; she had set the piece aside when Marianne had been announced, but picked it up again when they were both seated and the maid had gone to fetch the tea things. "Elinor, how can I help?"

At first Elinor hesitated to allow Marianne to assist, but, prevailed upon, she handed her a baptismal towel with needle and thread for Marianne to rehem. Elinor said she would press them all later, once the stitching was done. "Tiny stitches, dearest," she implored.

The two sisters sat in silence for several moments, sewing and listening to the low fire crackle. "Mama is worried about Margaret," Elinor said at last. "I received a letter from her this morning."

"Margaret? What's there to worry about Margaret?" Marianne shook her head as she poked the needle straight into her finger; Elinor paused from her own work to find her a thimble, then continued.

"I have the letter on the desk there by the window, but Mama writes to say that she spent nearly all of your wedding breakfast whispering with a young man with whom Mama is not acquainted. Mrs Jennings, by some miracle, did not take note of him, and so no one knows who he is, and Margaret will not say."

"She must have met him there; there are no unattached young men coming to Barton without Mrs Jenning's knowledge," Marianne observed.

"Indeed not," Elinor said, emphatically. "But will you not ask the Colonel who he was? He must be one of his relations or friends, for neither Mama nor I could recognize him."

"It is very like Margaret to keep a secret; she would enjoy the opportunity for speculation."

"I'm afraid she has her mother's disposition," Elinor agreed. "Will you not ask him?"

"My husband is in Bath today on business, but I shall speak with him when he returns."

"Away on business so soon after your marriage?" Elinor repeated, incredulous. "That does not sound like the Colonel."

"It was very urgent, and is only for one night." She did not want to tell her sister the cause for Brandon's visit to Bath; it still seemed quite unlikely to herself his reason for going, and, seeing how hard her sister worked to maintain the little parsonage, unfair to brag.

Elinor decided not to press. "I should tell you also that Mr Jacobs stopped by this morning, before breakfast. He wished to thank me for the basket of bread and biscuits, and when I told him I had no hand in it, he urged me to thank you on his behalf."

Marianne handed the hemmed towel back to Elinor, who inspected it and handed her a second one."His mother is quite unwell. I think he should not leave her alone so much of the day."

Elinor nodded; she could not disagree, though she knew from Edward why it could not be helped. "His family lies some distance outside of the village, and the physician implored them not to move Mrs Jacobs for fear of damaging her further. Mr Jacobs is thus in the intolerable position of worrying over his mother while needing to bring in his crops; they are a very poor family and cannot spare him in the fields."

Marianne sat in silence, stitching and thinking about her sister's words. She could not imagine such a dilemma, of being torn between devotion to her mother and devotion to her own family ; while her heart would be wholly desirous of doting upon her mother in her illness, she could not deny the necessity of feeding one's children through the winter. "How dreadful," she managed to say, as tears pricked the edges of her eyes.

The maid returned with the tea, and before she left, asked, "Will Mrs Brandon being joining us for supper, ma'am?"

Elinor looked to Marianne. "No, I think I shall visit Mrs Jacobs next," she replied. The maid curtseyed and left.

Immediately behind her came Edward, who, seeing Marianne in the parlour, went to her and kissed her and seated himself on the divan. "I see you have put your sister to work," he said, smiling at Elinor.

"I am glad to be of use. There is little at home to require my attention," Marianne said, wincing at her own words after she had said them.

"The Colonel is in town today on business," Elinor told Edward.

"Business?" he repeated.

"It was very urgent," said Marianne.

"I see. Did Elinor tell you about Mr Jacobs' visit?"

"She did. I will go to Mrs Jacobs from here; would you join me, Edward?"

He shook his head and gestured at the paper and pen in his hand, which Marianne only now noticed. "There is to be a baptism at the church tomorrow morning and I have yet to prepare a sermon for such an occasion."

"You shall find the words," she said, pausing her needle long enough to press his hand encouragingly. "Infants are very agreeable topics of conversation, after all."

"That is the popular opinion," he replied. Marianne could not help but see the admiring gaze her sister gave her husband, the amusement she took from his tone, the pleasure she received from being able to assist him in his profession. The three of them sat in silence for a moment. "I should leave you two to your work and attend to my own," he said, at last. Edward took his leave of Marianne and returned, she presumed, to his office at the parish house.

"Lucky Elinor," Marianne said, once he was out of earshot.

"You would not call me lucky if you knew how many of _these_ yet remained," Elinor replied, smiling, as she placed the finished cloth in her basket and drew out another.

"Your burden is made light by your love," Marianne insisted.

Elinor stopped trying to thread her needle and looked very seriously at her sister. "Marianne, you must _try_."

Marianne realized she was biting her lower lip; when she released it, her words poured forth uncontrolled: "If I had had the joy of being joined in my first attachment as you have -"

"Well you have not," Elinor interrupted, surprising them both. "And neither has _he._ He has suffered at least as greatly as have you, and to no more of his own deserving. His devotion to you is complete and still you regard him as little more than a consolation. You must try, you must endeavor, you must exert yourself; you have made vows no less binding than his. Can not you, of all the women on Earth, find love in your heart for such a friend?"

"Elinor …" Marianne stammered, chastened. How could she describe all that had passed through her heart and mind? "He is as good a friend as I have ever had, save in you."

A moment passed. "I am sorry, dearest Marianne." Both turned back to their sewing.

 _You must try,_ Marianne repeated to herself. _You must try._ "My husband's kindness is more than I merit. If I exhibit a lack of feeling it is perhaps that I know I cannot be worthy of it. I should have married a man whose true love was out of my reach, for then I would have my desserts."

"Dearest, do you truly think you do not deserve the Colonel's love?" Elinor shook her head, disbelieving. "Or the blessing of a happy home? There has never been a purer heart in all the world than yours, Marianne, nor one more capable of giving and receiving love. The happiness I have found here with Edward …" Elinor's modesty forced her to pause. "Is waiting for you. Only stretch out your hand."

Marianne was hesitant to speak again, and concentrated on the delicacy of her stitches. It was Elinor who spoke after some minutes. "Do you find his own expression of affection lacking?" Her tone was different now, more tender and concerned.

"No," she replied. "I think you would not recognize him when we are alone, Elinor."

Having now said as much as her sister's dignity would allow, Marianne completed her work and handed it back. She walked slowly to Mrs Jacobs' house and more slowly still to the mansion-house. It was nearly dark when she returned home for a silent, cold supper.


	13. Chapter 13

Washed and dressed for bed, Marianne found the book Brandon had given her the night before. She turned the pages and chose one at random: "I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name; / There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame," she read aloud into the silence of the room. "Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! / Forgive me, adored one! - forsake if thou wilt."

She set it face down on top of her covers and grimaced. She could almost hear his voice: "it is most important to woo a woman who has married where she does not love."

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,

Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove.

And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -

Thy lips shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

She almost threw the book across the bed. It fell at the foot of the bed with its cover loose and open, revealing the title page. There, below the author's name and before the publisher's, was written in a neat, tight hand: "Beloved Marianne."

Her mind was full to overflowing with the events of this last week, from the wedding she had not expected and its beauty, to the virtual outpouring of Brandon's emotions. She had realized but late that all his restraint masked deep feeling; that darkest sorrow had turned him to melancholy, and the prospect of a partner had drawn him out of it; that beyond her own suffering was that of others, and her indifference to it only compounded it; and that in Brandon she had opportunity to leave behind her own melancholy. She had only to stretch out her hand.


	14. Chapter 14

Morning could not come too soon, but with it came disappointment, for rain fell steadily from the moment Marianne woke. She did not venture out to see Miracle, and she ate her breakfast slowly, staring out at the grey gloom and dripping eaves of Delaford. Past the manicured lawn of the mansion-house she could see the church where Edward would be baptizing a new child of God, and beyond that the road to Bath where no rider could be expected.

She moved to the parlour and the pianoforte and found comfort in playing an old favorite tune, but so familiar was every note that her fingers played without need of her mind, and her playing did nothing to drown out her thoughts, which were fixed on Brandon. Could she love him? Could she find in her heart the sparkling emotion she had known once before? Was it possible to form a second attachment as one's first?

Familiar notes could not quell her racing mind. Marianne set aside the books she had brought to Delaford and drew out the book of duets her husband had given her on their wedding day, less than a week ago. Lack of familiarity required more attention, and despite the benefactor who had bestowed them upon her, the music at last demanded her full attention.

In a rest, she thought she heard hoofbeats. No one could be foolhardy enough to ride in the rain, through the mud of the country roads. When the piece was over, she thought she heard the door open. She rose and went to the window, where Brandon's horse was being led away from the front door. She said his name to herself, wonderingly.

Despite herself, Marianne was drawn across the parlour and into the foyer, where stood her husband, his oiled leather coat dripping onto the stone floor.

"Christopher, you're home," she said. "In the rain."

"I am," he agreed; it was, after all, sort of a stupid thing to say. She was surprised to find herself so glad to see him. The corners of her mouth twisted up slightly, no matter how she tried to suppress them. "I have never been one for the pleasures of town; Delaford has a far greater attraction."

"Rebecca, do take the Colonel's coat," she said, suddenly remembering herself. "And bring some warm water to his dressing room." She turned back to Brandon. "We should get you out of those wet things. I'll help you off with your boots."

They walked up the stairs together. "How is Mrs Jacobs?" he asked.

"Oh, dearest, she is very unwell. I went to see her yesterday and she was quite insensible of my presence. She will not be much longer."

His countenance fell and he nodded gravely. "It is best that she not linger."

"Yes," she breathed.

"I shall speak with Edward to be sure she is buried in Christian dignity." Brandon's generosity was striking, even to Marianne who had seen it so many times. He was indeed the very kindest and best of men.

"You are very good."

They entered his dressing room and she helped him off with his jacket, careful around his shoulder, which was very clearly aching. He then drew out from within the jacket two envelopes and handed her one. "This is your copy of my will. Pray put it with your records."

Marianne received it with both hands and looked at it; it was made of very fine linen paper and sealed by his lawyer. In it was contained the promise of her own safekeeping and defense; no son and no other could dislodge her from her own home nor deprive her of an income. She could not withhold the tears that burst forth. Instantly Brandon took hold of her arm and said her name imploringly.

"I - I -" She choked on a sob.

"Please, Marianne," he pleaded. "It is the very definition of my duty to provide for your protection and security." After another moment of struggle, she was able to master herself. "Put that with your things, Marianne, and don't think about it again."

Marianne nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. She crossed through the bedchamber and into her own dressing room, which was almost an exact copy of his in mirror image, opened the drawer where she kept her jewelry and tucked the envelope beneath it. Her hand brushed the silhouette of her husband; Elinor had made it - so it was doubly dear - at the insistence of their mother, and Brandon had had it framed. Without two of the Dashwood women prevailing upon him, he would never have agreed to such a project of vanity, but Marianne was glad to have it. She admired the little profile for an instant; Elinor had not done him justice, she thought: he was a good deal nobler in brow and his nose more straight. She set it back down in its drawer and pulled out the two tortoise shell pins that held up her hair and then returned to the bedroom.

Brandon was already changed out of his damp clothes and into his dressing gown, and was bent over the basin washing off the mud from the road. "I could have Rebecca bring up some tea," she offered, softly. He seemed not to hear. "My love?"

"Marianne," he replied, looking a bit surprised to see her there. "Forgive me, I was -"

"Lost in thought," she supplied. He observed her quizzically as he dried his skin. Marianne turned slightly to look out at the dripping, pewter sky outside through the window above their bedstead, and her hair swept loosely over her shoulder.

She turned back to face him and stretched out her hand.

\- Finnis -

Any thoughts and advice for improvements is sincerely appreciated! Thank you for reading!


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